Les Amis
by ChildrenoftheBarricade
Summary: My attempt to write every pairing possible within the Amis. Chapter 4: Hypochondria. Joly really is sick this time, and it falls to his eagle to nurse him back to health.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Set myself a little challenge to write every pairing within the Amis, as well as E/C/C and J/B/M. I have a numbered list, and courtesy of a random number generator, my first pairing is Bossuet/Jehan. Please note, there is no link between any of these. A character could be a complete ass in one story and an utter sweetheart in the next. There summary will change for each fic, and there'll be individual warnings for each fic. No explicit content, but may include things like swearing, possible genderbending, etc.**

**P.S: This one contains swearing.**

Bossuet had been cursed all his life, really, or so it seemed. He'd been raised by fairly wealthy parents, but there'd been falls from trees, tumbles down the stairs, things like that. This morning, he'd managed to lose his wallet, including the rent he'd been saving all month. Joly would be furious. Three months in a row, he'd had to bail Bossuet out, and was starting to lose patience with his calamities.

Trying to postpone the fury - Joly was meek, most of the time, but when he got angry, it was scary - Bossuet wandered around the Luxembourg Gardens. Enjolras and Combeferre would be occupying the Café Musain, and he was in no mood for politics. Bahorel would be at the Corinthe, take him out, only for him to be unable to pay his bill. No, a nice walk in the park would do him good.

He sat on a bench, basking in the summer sun, half-asleep. After an hour or so, a beautiful, melodic voice stirred him, singing some popular song that had been floating around the city. Bossuet had hated it, used to hearing it in grating, drunken voices, but it sounded like an angelic chorus. He opened his eyes to see a young man sat a little way from him, under a tree. His clothes were mismatched and poorly sized, but hardly a pauper's clothes, made of expensive fabrics. He was likely a poet, then, a little vague and dreamy when it came to life, fashion included, though most poets were impoverished. He must be some eccentric aristocratic child, still young enough that his parents funded his oddities.

That didn't matter, though. He studied the boy's face - he was just a boy, no older than sixteen. He was a lovely young creature, with wide, almost amber eyes and mousy brown hair falling into his face. He flipped his hair back every so often to study something he was holding. After a few moments - well, alright, not until he started playing it - Bossuet realised it was a flute.

When the boy got up to leave, Bossuet followed, with the intention of introducing himself. The boy was swift, and Bossuet wondered if he was cursed to let the boy slip through his fingers.

He knew it was unusual to be interested in men. Joly had been curious, wondering if there was a medical explanation for such a thing. Combeferre dismissed it - he recognised a similar quality in Grantaire, and knew that was the only quality Bossuet shared with the drunk. It was painfully unlikely that the amber-eyed boy would be interested, but it would be pleasurable enough to spend a little time in his company.

They were back in the depths of the city, Bossuet always a few paces behind, the boy just out of reach for a tap on the shoulder. He stopped at a stand outside a greengrocer's, and Bossuet thanked Fortuna. Just once, things might work out. He took a moment to catch his breath - by God, he was becoming unfit - and admired the boy, deliberating between apples and grapes. He had his flute tucked under his arm, a beautifully carved and no doubt expensive piece of work, as he took a handful of coppers from his pocket.

And then it all went wrong. It was bound to, Bossuet realised. He reached out to tap the boy on the shoulder, just as a thief grabbed the flute and ran. The boy gave a cry of dismay, tripping over his too long trouser legs as he turned after the thief. He sat on the street, tears brimming in his beautiful eyes, a drop of blood on his lip where he'd bitten it as he fell. WIthout another thought, Bossuet gave chase.

What was he thinking? These theives were fast. It was the only way they could get away with this. But if he wanted any chance of speaking to the amber-eyed boy, he had to keep running. Maybe it wouldn't bring back his lost rent, maybe it wouldn't abate Joly's inevitable anger, maybe the boy wouldn't care, but he had to try. He ran and kept running, keeping an eye on the thief.

Suddenly the thief tripped. Bossuet hardly dared to believe it. He stayed down, and when Bossuet approached, he understood why. Feuilly was leaning against the wall, a knife in his hand. Always wary, always armed - old habits die hard. The thief cast him dirty glances, but didn't dare challenge him. Feuilly's name was stil notorious among the underbelly of Paris as someone not to be messed with.

"What. The. Hell?" Bossuet stammered, gasping for breath.

"I've just watched you chase him down the street. I figured you could do with a hand. Who is the bastard, then?"

"I don't know. He robbed a boy..."

"A boy you had your eye on."

"Maybe."

"Well, go save your damsel in distress, or whatever he is. Oh, Joly got your note about the lost wallet. He says he can't afford the rent on his own this month, so you have to think of something."

"Fuck. Well, maybe I can make a young man happy before I'm made homeless." He took the flute off the thief, and Feuilly crouched beside the man.

"I will find out who you are. And if I hear you've been stealing from defenceless little boys again, the law will be the least of your worries." Bossuet stepped back. He knew Feuilly had turned his back on a life of crime, but in moments like this, it was easy to see why he had been notorious. Now, he was a protector of the weak and innocent rather than preying on them. Nonetheless, it was scary.

Bossuet headed back to the greengrocer's. The shopkeeper's wife had apparently taken pity on the boy, and had him settled in the apartment above the shop, giving him a cup of tea to sip. Bossuet was let in, after a hurried explanation to the greengrocer, and he presented the boy with the flute.

"You got it back?" He jumped up and threw his arms around Bossuet. "Thank you so much! Let me take you for a drink to thank you properly."

Bossuet accepted, taking the boy to a nearby cafe. He finally introduced himself to the boy, and found out he was called Jehan.

"That's an unusual name."

"Well, I was christened Jean, for my father, but I thought that was boring. I decided to change it. But thank you so much for bringing my flute back. I have money, there must be some way I can reward you."

Bossuet hesitated. "Well... I'd accept a kiss." He wouldn't take the boy's money, he couldn't. Of course, asking for a kiss could land him in serious trouble. Jehan could look at him in absolute disgust. But instead, he smiled, and gave Bossuet a gentle kiss, before bidding him goodbye.

In the end, Bossuet borrowed money from Enjolras. Being both wealthy and frugal left him with a large surplus, and he lent it willingly, though most were too proud to ask. Ah, well. He'd pay him back eventually. He gave Joly the rent money, using the little he had left to buy a bottle of wine. Things would go back to normal, but that was fine. He'd had a kiss from a beautiful boy, and managed not to injure himself while chasing a thief - even if it was Feuilly who'd stopped him in the end.

He drank a glass, musing. A small gamin came in to the cafe. "'Scuse me, are you M. Bossuet?"

"Yes."

"M. Jehan requests that you meet him at the Luxembourg Gardens at eight o'clock, if it is convenient."

Well. Perhaps his luck was beginning to change.

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Next pairing will be available ASAP.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Two chapters done in one day! Been a long time since I've done that. This pairing is Bahorel/Feuilly. I think it's fair to say that there's gonna be swearing, and this will be a modern AU. Also, mentions of drug use and possibility of OOCness.**

We should never have really crossed paths. We had nothing in common. He was younger than me, smarter than me. He shouldn't have ended up here in the gang infested Clubhouse, drinking, gambling, causing trouble. He could have made something of himself, but after a lifetime of watching those around him failing to escape poverty, he gave up.

I kept an eye on Samuel Feuilly, curious. He couldn't be more than twenty. He'd finished school a couple of years ago with good grades, but his teachers had encouraged him to persue an apprenticeship or something similar. They'd told him that a young man of his background 'would struggle to finance further education' - something he complained bitterly about when he was drunk. Otherwise, he was quiet and reserved, the youngest apprentice of Patron-Minette after Montparnasse had caught the eye of some rich housewife. He'd seen her advances, threatened to tell her husband and blackmailed a fortune from her. He was in Spain, last I'd heard of him.

I didn't get involved in gangs. Well, that's a lie, but I was never part of one. I drifted between them, a free agent, I borrowed money from them, did a few jobs when I was strapped for cash or slow at paying back a debt. Patron-Minette had never required my services, and in honesty, I was a little intimidated by them. I'd met most of them, but their enigmatic leader was nothing more than a whispered pseudonym with more blood on his hands than a butcher.

I drank with them, though, never talking about work. It was how Sam came to my attention. It was obvious that he didn't belong, right from the start. But as months wore on, he became better and better at what he was doing. He was a quick thief, and soon gained a reputation for it. After a year, he'd never been caught. After two, rumours began circulating that he could work as quickly as Claquesous. By the time he was twenty-three, whispers sprang up that he would replace Claquesous - apparently the shadowy leader was planning on retiring, taking a lifetime of ill-gotten gains and disappearing. That would never happen. The benefits of working quickly meant that Sam had never spilt blood, and I doubted that he could. We'd become closer over the three years. I'd be hard pressed to call us friends, with so much distrust in the Parisian backstreets, but if I saw him, we'd go out for a drink. And, while I was a passing acquaintance to him, I fell in love with him.

It was hard not to. I could see in him a goodness that the others didn't posess. He refused jobs that were based on pointless revenge, couldn't hurt a fly. He seemed so out of place that I couldn't help but focus on him, and with him always in my line of sight, I couldn't help but fall for him.

One afternoon, I was sat in the Clubhouse playing a bit of poker. I was doing OK, earning another few bottles of vodka. My phone rang, as it always did when I was trying to relax.I didn't check the number - it would be blocked. "Christophe Bahorel."

"Christophe, it's Reyard." Reyard was the head of Patron-Minette's biggest rival. I tried not to get involved too heavily, reluctant to take sides, but a job was a job, and Reyard paid over the odds.

"What's the matter?"

"That little rat of Patron-Minette's, the one who replaced Montparnasse, he slept with my son." Smart boy. Reyard's son was a gorgeous man of about twenty-five. And it meant that Sam was gay. But then I realised. Reyard was protective. Sam wouldn't be allowed to get away with this.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know! Fucking castrate him for all I care, just make sure he keeps his filthy hands off my son. But for God's sake, don't kill him. I don't want to risk this spiralling out of control. A hundred thousand if you do it."

That was a lot of money. And refusing Reyard would put my life at risk. I didn't have to hurt him seriously, just enough that it was clear I'd done my job. Besides, there was no future for us anyway. He was just a young man I'd been admiring from afar. I had no choice, really.

It was two days before we were both at the Clubhouse at the same time. I followed him, far enough behind that he didn't hear me, glancing at him occasionally; I wasn't sure I believed people coud feel when they were being watched, but better safe than sorry. I picked up my pace, little by little. Finally, I was close enough to pull him into an alleyway between a cafe and some clothes shop, both closed. There was no-one around.

"What the fuck do you think you're..." I clamped a hand over Sam's mouth.

"Keep quiet. I will remove my hand. But if you try to say another word or scream for help, I will punch you in a way that will paralyse your vocal cords." I was pretty sure that I couldn't actually do that, but he nodded all the same. I removed my hand and he stayed silent, looking up at me with wide eyes, filled with betrayal. Well, that's what he gets for choosing this life.

I watched him for a moment, curious as to his reaction to this situation. It was a stupid thing to do. Sam was no great beauty, but he was far from hideous. And everything I tried to put to the back of my mind came rushing back in an almost overwhelming surge of emotion. And stupidly, unthinkingly, I leant forward and kissed him.

He started to struggle and panic. It wasn't an overreaction. I had, after all, dragged him into a deserted alleyway, told him not to scream and kissed him. "No, I'm sorry, don't panic. I won't hurt you, I swear."

I couldn't now. I knew that. "Just follow me, please. Trust me."

"Why should I?"

"Or you'll end up dead for sleeping with your rival's son. Come on." I took him to Gabriel Courfeyrac, an old friend of mine. He gave me a place to crash when I needed it, and was not stingy with his large amounts of inherited health. In return, I obtained certain illegal recreational drugs for him. We kept score of favours, and at that moment, I was one or two up.

"Chris! Good to see you. Why don't you introduce me to your charming friend. No, wait, I have another favour to ask you. I'm running a little low..." Gabriel constantly seemed like he was high on something. Maybe he was, or maybe I just had no patience for hyperactive people. He was the only one of the few users I knew who genuinely didn't seem to have a problem. It just seemed to be a form of recreation for him, rather than a need. But then again, I could have misjudged him again.

"Gabriel, I'll get you whatever you want, but I need a massive favour. This is Sam. He needs to disappear, or we're both in trouble."

"For how long?"

"Forever. He deserves better. Find him somewhere to live, a job, just get him out of this. I swear, I'll get you and your girlfriend whatever you want."

"Anything you want, mon ami. I'll be in touch."

"Make sure he isn't." I tilted my head at Sam. "Don't give him a chance to come back."

"Don't I get a say in this?" Sam asked almost tentatively, still a little scared and confused.

"No. Because if you're sensible, you'll agree. If you don't agree, you're clearly too messed up in the head to be making this decision."

"Christophe..."

"What?"

"You kissed me."

"Forget it. Forget me. If Reyard ever finds out I didn't hurt you, we're both dead."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because you're better than us. Don't spout bullshit about how you're a criminal, the same as us, because you're not. I always saw it, I fell for you because of it, but this is a fresh start for you. Don't let anyone tell you you're less than them." I was just rambling now, and I realised a moment too late that I'd just confessed my feelings to him. Oh, what did it matter now? I left before he got his head round any of what I'd just said.

He'd be better off. It wasn't too late for him to go back to school, go on to do great things. After all, he had no criminal record to speak off. I told Reyard I'd scared him off, and he accepted it when there was no sign of Sam in days, weeks to follow. He didn't come back - clearly Gabriel had talked sense into him.

Gabriel was fortunate. He was the heir to a fortune, had the world handed to him on a silver platter, and was frankly a spoilt brat. But his girlfriend, Jeanne, adored him all the same. Well, he was almost a prince, he was guaranteed a happy ending. So was Sam, an innocent soul faced with adversity. I had to be satisfied with this, still caught in a web of criminals, but I'd saved him from this. Maybe that was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Well, mes amis. It's been a long time. I'm not proud of it, but life has a funny way of getting in the way of things. I feel like I'm in control of everything right now, so binge-writing will commence. My writer's block has finally been cured by a trip to London to see the show live for the first time last week, and I decided to choose 14th July to make my return - it seemed appropriate.**

**On that note, happy Bastille Day! I admit, this pairing did not come courtesy of an RNG - the next one did, I promise - but I wanted to return on a strong note, and E/R is a relatively strong pairing for me, so enjoy! I hope I'll be posting more often.**

Courfeyrac leant back in his chair, considering and pouring himself a glass of wine. This was not something he was prepared for, not in a million years. But he was pretty sure Enjolras didn't know how to lie, and he spoke with that calm, matter of fact tone. This was not a lie, or a joke, or some passing madness. This was something he'd sat down and considered.

"You came to me?"

"I did not come to you. This is not some problem I need resolving, I don't require advice. I just want you to stop pushing me towards an endless string of grisettes and whores."

"I'm not the only one..."

"No, but you are the one I trust most in this matter. This is not an aspect of my character that I want to become public knowledge." That was fair enough. Enjolras was not well-liked. He seemed to be made of marble. He was a boy of eighteen years who wouldn't drink or gamble or smoke with them, who seemed unwilling to share his emotions, or to join his friends in their womanising. Well, now Courfeyrac understood why, but he would not be greeted with open arms if word got out. Combeferre saw potential in him, but he was a long way from the avenging angel 'Ferre wanted. To the majority, he just seemed stuck up.

"Why Grantaire?" Enjolras shrugged. Grantaire was Enjolras's polar opposite, but maybe that was the appeal. He was no great beauty, but if Enjolras had no real concept of beauty. Otherwise, Courfeyrac was sure, he'd spend hours in front of a mirror. Maybe it was the art, or his stubborness, or the fire in his belly. It was inconsequential. The point was that the drunken cynic had captured Enjolras's attention in some way or another. "But... you hate him."

"I don't hate anyone. He irritates me, and I don't like certain aspects of his character, but I do not hate him. And besides, it is easier than falling prey to temptations and distractions. It's easier to keep my distance."

"I'm sure your precious Patria will forgive you falling in love."

"This is not love!" he insisted.

"No? Then what is it?" It was not physical attraction. Courfeyrac was sure Enjolras didn't feel physical attraction, and certainly not towards Grantaire. If freeing him from his mental torment was as easy as getting Enjolras into Grantaire's bed for a night, he'd be right as rain by morning.

"I don't know. Love is Jehan simpering over whichever girl has caught his attention this week. That's not this."

"Then what? What is it you want of Grantaire?"

"Just... for him to be there. To know he's nearby. Oh, I don't know. This is not something I normally feel."

This was love, Courfeyrac decided. It was love in a very Enjolraic, logical way, but love nonetheless. But he would not give in to his desires, not while there was work to be done. Grantaire, of all people...

Well, in a way, it made sense. On one side, Enjolras had hate. Certain members of their group had no affection for their Apollo, wanted to drag him down to mortality. On the other he had love, his close friends often overbearing on a boy who had time for and no understanding of the intricacies of emotion. To Enjolras's oblivious eyes, at least, Grantaire simply didn't care, praising and condemning in the same breath.

That would be a hell of a blow, then, when he discovered the truth. Grantaire was smitten, and Enjolras was blind enough to believe it was just some shred of faith in the cause, in Enjolras's devotion to the cause. Grantaire believed in Enjolras, yes, but not for his ability to change the world.

"Valentin, he's in love with you, and I believe it to be much the same as your love for him." Granted, there was not a complete lack of physical attraction on that side, but lust was not the driving force in Grantaire's infatuation, and he'd never lay a hand on the boy, content to just look.

"I am not in love!" His raised voice caught some attention. Combeferre frowned but Courfeyrac waved his hand in some vague gesture, mouthing 'I'll tell you later' at him.

"Alright, maybe love is not the right word." It was, but Courfeyrac didn't want to argue on a technicality. "The point is, Grantaire feels the same way about you. He hides it behind cynicism, and you hide behind duty, but you are the reason he stays. Granted, he doesn't help much, but he tries. He wouldn't lift a finger to help the republic if you didn't ask. You could be happy and aid the cause in one move."

"No. I can't take the risk of distractions. I've seen what it does to the rest of you. Even Combeferre on occasion. I won't fall prey to that."

"One day, then? When the fight is won, when Patria is free. Then will you consent to let yourself be happy?"

"Why does it matter to you?"

"Because you're my friend. I want you to be happy, and you deserve to be."

"Fine. If this - whatever it is - proves to be more lasting than your transient infatuations, then I will give in when France is free. But France comes first."

"I know, I know."

"Thank you for your help... I think. It's getting late, I'm going to head home. Goodnight, Gabriel. Please, don't repeat any of what I told you."

"I promise. 'Night, petit." He rolled his eyes - well, that was what he got for looking about fourteen - and left. Courfeyrac would keep his promise, to an extent. He'd gloss over everything with Combeferre, but he couldn't entirely resist interfering. He sat himself opposite Grantaire.

"So what's going on? Has some heavenly grisette caught Apollo's eye? It was only a matter of time, I suppose. Even gods have needs."

"Nothing of the sort, mon ami. Now listen to me, and listen closely. Do not give up on him."

"There's nothing to give on. I admire him from afar. He continues to be his Apollonian self. You and I both know that he will fight for this until he wins or dies, and the latter is more likely."

"Well, that amount of faith is not going to win him round. You have to fight for what you believe in just as much as we do."

"I believe in nothing."

"You believe in him."

"Courf, what's the point of this? We both know he hates me, and feigning interest in his little revolution won't help my case."

"He's dear to me, and I want his happiness. Call me crazy, but I think you can give it to him. Besides, it will make you happy too. Please, just say you'll try. I'm not asking you to lead the revolution, just make an effort. For me. For him."

"Fine. For Apollo, I'll try." He took another swig from his ever-present wine bottle. "But expect no miracles. I won't give up on him, but he has already given up on me."

Courfeyrac thanked him, and left him to his wine. They were perfectly matched, he decided. Both stubborn and devoted and refusing to give up on a man who they felt had already given up on them. Maybe, just maybe, this could all work out.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Two chapters in one day doesn't really cover a year of absence, but it's the best I can do. This pairing was generated by a random number generator, but it's a mercifully easy Joly/Bossuet. The next one isn't as simple (Spoiler: It's Bahorel/Marius), but that's the price I pay for cheating on the last chapter. Enjoy!**

Courfeyrac sighed. "Joly, for the millionth time, you are not dying. I promise. You have a headache, just go home and sleep it off."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No, but neither are you yet. You have predicted your imminent death 21 times this month alone, and the month is not over! You're fine."

"How do you know that?"

"He's taking bets," Feuilly informed him from the corner. "I won't name names, but some people are wagering how many times you will predict your death before the year is out. I hear you're in the hundreds so far."

"And you're still here. Go home, let your eagle fuss over you. Look, if you are sick, you're just going to infect the rest of us. The revolution can't go ahead if you've given us all some life-threatening illness."

"Courfeyrac..." Feuilly hissed a warning, but Joly had been thoroughly convinced to go, and he headed back to his apartment. Bossuet wouldn't be home until later - unlike Courfeyrac, he'd actually agreed to go to class, after a lecture from Combeferre. They needed as many lawyers as possible, and Courf was never going to pass the bar at this rate.

Joly made himself a mug of herbal tea - Jehan swore by it - and settled down on the sofa. Maybe it wasn't the best place, though. He'd get bored and get distracted by the TV or the computer, and that wouldn't help his head. He was starting to cough as well, and his nose felt all stuffed up. Maybe he should call Combeferre to check him over. Maybe he should call a fully qualified doctor. Or maybe he should just go to bed and hope he felt better in a few hours.

Bossuet didn't rush home that evening. Courf called him after class, telling him to come for a drink at the Musain while there was no political talk going on, and Grantaire was drinking somewhere else. They liked him just as much as any of the others, but in moderation. If he was too sober, he was melancholy, and if he was too drunk, he forgot what personal space was. No, now was as good a time as any to go for a drink. He texted Joly to tell him he'd be home late and headed to the bar.

He didn't drink too much. He was cursed, and he didn't want to tempt fate by getting so drunk that he couldn't see straight. That was just asking for something bad to happen. He had a couple of pints with Courf, who told him Joly had decided he'd contracted something deadly again.

"So, what's the annual tally so far?"

"One hundred and forty six."

"Damn it." Bossuet had put in a wager for two hundred, but it was only July. He'd far surpass that by New Year. It was the damned hay fever's fault, he knew. Joly had diagnosed himself with no fewer than seventeen deadly diseases in the space of one day in the spring. After that, Combeferre had banned him from using symptom checkers.

"Feuilly nearly ditched us in it. Told Joly I was making bets on him."

"What did he say?"

"He didn't, but we all bet on each other. Grantaire paid the rent on guessing how many times you could fall down the stairs in the space of a month."

"I should get back to him. 'Night."

He took a cab back, rather than take any risks with walking, and found his apartment quiet and still. "Nic? You here?"

There was a spluttering cough in the bedroom, and Bossuet approached, finding Joly wrapped up in blankets and looking thoroughly miserable. He _was_ sick. Bossuet doubted that his hypochondriac's life was in any immediate danger, but he was genuinely sick. "David? What time is it?"

"Pretty late," he admitted. "I was with Courf."

"They all think I'm faking it."

"Don't worry about them. Let's just get you better, yeah? You lie back, I'll look after you. And I promise, if you look like you're dying, I'll call an ambulance."

Joly relaxed a little, and Bossuet headed into the kitchen, determined. He was going to make Joly soup. Soup was good for sick people, right? And Joly liked soup. Yes, he was going to cook for him.

After forty-five minutes, a spill that nearly made him break his neck and a burnt pot, Bossuet admitted defeat. Cooking was not his forte. Unwilling to return to Joly empty-handed, he texted Combeferre, begging him for help. With both Enjolras and Courfeyrac in the house, and both of them neither willing nor able to feed themselves properly, he was a decent cook. He arrived ten minutes later, with a pot of soup.

"How's the patient?"

"He's Joly. So, he's going to be completely fine, but has probably convinced himself he has the Black Death."

"If he gets any worse, give me a call, yeah? It's no trouble, even if it's a false alarm."

"Thanks. Goodnight."

"Goodnight. I'll come round in the morning, see how he is."

Bossuet fed Joly soup for a while, until he settled back against the pillows. Bossuet thought he'd fallen asleep until he softly called out his name.

"What's up?"

"Thank you. I know I'm impossible when I'm sick, and I know it always falls to you to look after me. I'm sorry. But it's because I love you and I trust you, and I know you're the one that's always going to be there for me, even if I'm not dying."

Bossuet paused. It was the first time Joly had ever said 'I love you'. Maybe it was fuelled by delirium and sickness, but he'd said it. Touched, he climbed into bed beside him, putting his arms around his hypochondriac, letting Joly fall asleep with his head resting on Bossuet's shoulder.

Of course, sentimentality was his downfall. When Combeferre came round in the morning, he found both of them coughing and sneezing and shivering, Bossuet infected with whatever vicious cold Joly had. They were stuck in bed for three days, the Amis taking turns to run errands for them. Most did it without complaint, but not all - Courfeyrac and Bahorel swore to hold it against them in return for future favours. It didn't matter, though. None of that mattered. It had been worth it for that one night with Joly in his arms, for the chance to whisper softly in his ear as he succumbed to sleep.

"I love you too."


End file.
